


Lost

by Sparkle_Free



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, doctors suffer the pain of loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the [kinkmeme](http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/5516.html?thread=10859660#t10859660)

Watson all but fell into his chair, exhaustion overwhelming him. Holmes was gone, had been out when he'd gotten notice of the accident and rushed to help. He wondered idly if he'd been home, if he'd noticed Watson's disappearance at all.

Probably not.

He looked down at his hands with a soft sigh, flexing his weary fingers, the knot of tension in his shoulders only increasing as he thought back to the events of the day.

So much blood. So much screaming.

He closed his eyes, shuddering, before pushing himself to his feet and crossing to the brandy decanter, pouring himself a large drink. He drained it straight away, not bothering to carry the glass with him back to his chair as he moved to sit. Curling in on himself, he let his head fall into his hands. There was a dull ache in his chest, a bone-deep throbbing that had started with every beat of his heart the instant hers had stopped. The sun slipped farther down the sky, casting a dark red hue to everything in the room; a macabre portrait. Everywhere he looked he saw blood. He pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to block out the memories. His skin pulled where the blood had dried on his hands -

\- _small hands, scrambling for purchase on his, a hysterical woman screaming behind him, sobs, a man or woman_ -

\- he jerked his head up, shaking it firmly. He stood, legs shaking as he moved to pour himself another drink. The brandy splashed out of his glass, running dark over his fingers, dripping onto the floor below. He drank it hastily, the glass clicking against his teeth.

It should have been a simple extraction. Remove the bullet, stitch the wound. If he'd been able to do that right, it would have been safe to move her; she could have been taken to the hospital. If he'd done that right, she would have lived. Any competent physician could have done it, he thought bitterly. Anyone, yet here, he was, standing in his darkening sitting room, blood on his hands, palm still itching at the feel of her father _shaking his hand,_ when it was all said and done. Thanking him for trying his best. His stomach churned at the thought and for a moment he was sure he would be sick. His glass slipped from his fingers, rolling away, leaving a dark trail of liquid in it's wake.

He moved to lay on the settee, curling on his side. Gladstone walked over and sat next to the settee quietly, until Watson finally reached down and lifted him onto the seat next to him, wrapping his arms around him. He knew he probably looked childish, lying there clutching his bulldog like a child's rag doll, his tears soaking into his fur. He was positive he didn't care.

Around him, the day slipped quietly into night.

He didn't care about that, either.

\-----

Holmes threw open the door to the sitting room, striding inside only to stop just inside the door, the smell of brandy and something else - blood? - assaulting his senses. Watson lay on the settee, eyes bleary as he stared into the fire. Gladstone lay on the floor next to him, snoring lightly.

"Watson?" Watson started and turned to look at him, eyes strangely vacant. "Whatever is wrong?"

He let out a barking laugh that made the hairs on the back of Holmes' neck stand up. Watson pushed himself up as he spread his arms wide. "Why don't you tell me, Holmes?"

His hair was a mess, sticking up at all angles, his clothes rumpled and torn in places. Scratches on the backs of his wrists that looked like they'd been made by small fingers. A reddish-brown mud on his sleeves, interspersed with patches of dried blood. _Patches,_ not flecks or drops.

"A twelve year old girl," he interrupted Holmes' thoughts. "Twelve," he whispered, passing a hand over his eyes. "Leave me be, please. I can't -" his voice broke, and Holmes was at his side in an instant, tugging his hand away from his face. He knelt next to the settee, looking up into Watson's face as his eyes filled with tears, his cheeks dark with shame. "Stop it, please," he begged, trying to pull his hands away. Holmes held on fast.

He sat on the end of the settee, tugging Watson against his chest, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Don't, Holmes," Watson struggled, "I know you don't like to -"

"- Hush," he interrupted, holding tighter. Watson finally relaxed against him, leaning his head on his shoulder and exhaling deeply. "I'm certain you did your best," Holmes said softly.

"Yes, my best, and look what that got her parents - a cold body to put in a hole in the ground," he said bitterly. Holmes held him tighter.

"If you couldn't save her, then it was not possible," Holmes said firmly.

"Holmes -"

"It's the truth," he said softly. He risked running his fingers through Watson's hair, and was rewarded with him relaxing against him further. He leaned back against the arm of the settee, until Watson was half laying on him, Holmes' other arm moving to wrap around his waist.

They lay that way in silence until the fire nearly burned out, the barest of shadows still dancing on the walls. "Tell me about her," Holmes requested, voice hushed in the darkened room.

Watson stirred against him. "Her uncles had been out hunting, and left their guns in the entrance way," he began, but Holmes held up his hand to stop him.

"Not how she died," he said. "Tell me about how she lived."

Watson looked up at him, and in the dying firelight Holmes thought he could see a glimmer of a smile. "She'd been my patient since she was five," he began softly, "She used to bring flowers for my office every spring -"

"- the posies?"

"Yes, those. I'm not surprised you remember."

"Well, with the way Mrs. Hudson would sneeze for a week after, I'd be hard-pressed to forget. And yet you never asked her to stop."

Watson shook his head, letting out a watery chuckle. "No. She always looked so proud of herself; dirt smudges on her face and all. She loved to paint, her mother used to tell me. She showed me a few of her paintings once; she was very talented. She had such a bright smile..."

He talked until his voice was hoarse, telling stories her mother had told him, stories she herself had told, about watching her grow over the years. Eventually he broke of and ducked his head, pressing his face against Holmes' neck as the tears began anew. Holmes held him as the fire went out, curled around him as his shoulders stopped shaking and his breath evened out.

Hours later, he watched Watson's face, slack in sleep, as the sun rose behind them. The light flooded the room, highlighting the golden flecks in his hair, shining in the tears still clinging to his lashes. His eyes opened slowly, a vibrant blue, softened in the early morning light. Holmes smoothed a hand over his cheek. Watson stared back at him for a moment.

Then hesitantly, he smiled.


End file.
